Afternoon
Let us watch these flowers of privation bloom
And carry the doubtful smell of distant lands and seasons,
Both past and future unfold and fall into our laps,
Each stretching shadow spell some halcyon fulfillment.
We’re seasoned by the shifting slant of similar afternoons
In moods and days counting to you or me for nothing,
Like a lonely pipit’s trill departing from a poplar
Skims floating bands of mist over wheat fields at dusk,
Heard by a few, returned by none, and recreates
Life’s mystery in lineaments of unseen faces.
Forgetfulness is yielding clues against my will,
Unheeding all, to memory’s allusive hand,
Whose work weaves strong illusions and whimpers faint impressions
Showing us what is not true yet carries meaning,
Tracing pathways leading to primeval strains,
Encompassing ontology and childhood whims
In little things like swaying tops of bamboo trees
Outside the house where you once played those little games.
